Redemption
by merlinmercury
Summary: "You know," Stiles slurs, "if we had sex right now, I could literally die doing what I love."


"You know," Stiles slurs, "if we had sex right now, I could literally die doing what I love."

Derek sighs, and grits his teeth against the mounting onslaught of pain crawling up through his arm like shards of glass and lightning just beneath his skin. Better his than Stiles', he tells himself over and over.

"Sorry." There's little more than a creaky whisper left of Stiles' voice, but he uses it as relentlessly as ever. "This is probably awkward for you. I don't really mean for it to be. I just thought—just thought that since I'm dying and all I should do that thing where I tell the people I love that I love them and you're the only one here and it's actually kind of perfect because you're the person I've never managed to tell before. But it's okay, you don't have to listen to me—in fact, please don't—just let me say it, just this once."

Derek just nods. If he opens his mouth right now he's afraid he'll say it back, and he can't burden Stiles with that.

Because Stiles isn't dying tonight, not on Derek's life.

They're so far out in the woods that even to Derek it feels like the middle of nowhere. The slashes opening up Stiles' arms and torso are deep, too deep, and Derek hates that he can't pick him up and carry him to the hospital at a sprint, drive him there so fast he loses his license for good. Every movement tugs at the clumsy stitches Derek wove into Stiles' body with his quaking hands, causes him to lose more blood than he can spare. All he can do is wait for the helicopter to come and find them, and keep taking Stiles' pain in the meantime.

"I've never been a big believer in the afterlife, but I kind of hope it exists, now. Mostly so I can see my mom again. If you don't get to see people you've lost then I'm not so sure I want an afterlife, but I think maybe it'll happen. If werewolves can happen, I think I can see her again."

That's a thought that shakes Derek. Healing a human isn't like healing a werewolf; it will take a different spark from his eyes, sap the strength of his human side only, and it's not something that can be done by halves. Derek realises he might see his mom again soon—his parents and brothers and Laura and his whole extended family, everybody who'd been trapped in the house when it went up in flames. Soon, he'll have a chance to apologise face to face, to beg their forgiveness in person. He's never really felt like he'd even be able to beg, never felt like he deserves that chance—but here with Stiles, he feels a just little more worthy.

"I believe in it," he breaks his silence. Stiles looks at him questioningly. "The afterlife," he clarifies. "My mom and dad told me stories when my grandfather died. They said that werewolves were meant to be with the moon, and that after this life, that's where we go. We'll be whole again there, instead of missing the moon, losing control with yearning when her pull is strongest. I don't know if humans can go there too. I hope so—but even if they can't, there has to be somewhere else similar for them."

"Mm," Stiles mumbles. "Hope you're right. But I think humans and werewolves will be together. We can be friends, after all; we're not that different. And then you can come find me one day."

Derek swallows thickly, blinks heavily. "Yeah," he agrees. "I'll keep an eye out for you."

Spots of white have begun to appear around the edges of Derek's vision. He welcomes them as a sign that the healing is working. If he can just keep Stiles' body going until the helicopter arrives, maybe everything will be okay. Stiles will be able to go back to his friends, back to the Sherriff, finish school and go to college and do something amazing with his life. He has so much more to live for than Derek does, and Derek has so many more people to visit where they sit in the company of the moon.

"Don't give up on people, Derek," Stiles is saying. "Sure, maybe you should pick more carefully than you did with Jennifer, but you can't give up altogether. You can't be alone, okay? Don't do that. That's my dying wish, see, so now you have to do it. Ha."

Derek feels a crepe-paper smile tear itself into his facial muscles. Everything burns, and he's not sure anymore which pain is flowing in from Stiles, and which is coming from his own body as it shuts down.

Derek nods. "I'll be happy," he promises. And he will be, happier than he's been here for a long time.

Stiles seems satisfied. "Hey, dude, you don't look too good," he says, a few minutes later. "I mean, you always look good, but you look really pale. Or maybe it's just because my eyes are kind of blurry and weird."

The white spots have continued growing steadily. Derek tries to focus on them, but that's not how it works, and they keep escaping him. "I'm fine, Stiles," he says, only tripping over the name a tiny bit. "Don't worry about me."

"Sure," Stiles says. "Hey, do you reckon I could steal a goodbye kiss? Or would that be totally—who am I kidding, that would totally not be cool, forget I said that."

Derek doesn't wait, doesn't hold himself back from this one thing, just leans down and presses his lips against Stiles'. He doesn't have the energy for much more, but it's still enough, still more than he's let himself hope for in a long time. He tries to make it a goodbye and an apology at once. It's selfish, what he's doing, he knows that. He knows what it's like to be left with the guilt of being responsible for someone's death, and he hates that he will be the one to lay that on Stiles. He can't assure him that this is completely his own choice, though, without giving away what he's doing. If Stiles pulls away from him now, it'll only cause both of them to die.

"Woah," Stiles breathes after Derek's lips reluctantly leave his.

"Yeah," Derek replies—and he knows he hasn't said the words, but maybe he's managed to give them to Stiles anyway. It's selfishness, again, that makes him feel glad that Stiles knows, even though it will only make it harder for him when Derek's gone.

Chances are he'd have found out anyway, if he'd worked out that the kind of healing Derek's doing now only works on a mate. Derek just hopes that he's not as much to Stiles as Stiles is to him, hopes that there's someone else out there who's destined for the boy.

"Okay, are you sure there isn't something wrong, Derek?" Stiles is asking. "Are you taking too much pain? You can give me some of it, you know, I'm the one who got all slashed up by some stupid omega in the first place."

Derek opens his mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a low growl. He tries to tighten his grip on Stiles' arm but finds it awfully difficult to draw his fingers closed.

"Not your fault," he manages eventually, because it's important, it's so, so important that Stiles knows that, even if he doesn't realise what Derek's really talking about right now.

"Whatever you say."

"'s true."

Derek's head is heavy. It's so heavy, and he has to put it down somewhere, so he leans his forehead against Stiles', lays a small amount of the weight there. It's nice, this intimacy they've found here, even if they'll never get to take it any further, or sit down and decide what they really are to each other. He can feel Stiles' laboured breaths against his mouth, Stiles' scent clouding his nostrils every time he inhales. Every muscle in his body aches like it's splitting apart.

Faintly, he hears the chopping of a helicopter.

He's done what he needed to do. He's saved someone, finally.

"Thank you, Stiles," he murmurs as the dots dance more and more furiously. They cluster and merge until everything glows as white as the full moon—and it feels something like redemption.


End file.
